Scars
by Harukami
Summary: Tsuzuki attempts to sleep and finds memory the hardest thing to banish. Hisoka understands why.


Scars - by Harukami  
  
He tries to remember to smile during the day.  
  
At night, he dreams. He dreams of fire, of knives entering flesh, of roses and their scents. Of gunshots. Of the heavy exhaustion of despair. Of kisses.  
  
They are not nice kisses.  
  
He dreams of a ship and a game and a loss, of being approached, of knowing that he's going to hurt and not being able to stop it fairly. Fairness is everything. He turns his face away at the last minute. The revulsion of the tongue tracing the vein in his throat is better than what he would have had if he'd been kissed.  
  
It doesn't matter.  
  
He dreams of kisses - of loss of self, of the kiss that is the other's victory. Falling like an angel that learns it isn't human. That kiss. He dreams of kisses while vulgar things are whispered to him. His body exists for use only. A knife in his flesh. The aching pangs of hunger and exhaustion and thirst. Emptiness. Fire.  
  
His lips on fire.  
  
He wakes with his lips still burning, not painful but itching, insistant, unwilling to settle down and just be lips. He starts, clutches at his heart, holds himself, but doesn't scream, because Hisoka sleeps in a bed on the other side of the room. His back is to Tsuzuki. All Tsuzuki can see is pale hair and the hunch of shoulders, as if he can protect himself, defensive even in his sleep.  
  
The most important thing to him is always the feelings of others, so he doesn't scream when he wakes with his lips on fire, and he tries to remember to smile during the day.  
  
***  
  
"Tsuzuki."  
  
It's dark, the moonlight passed from the window, and Tsuzuki has turned his back on the other bed, shuddering silently. The voice comes out of the nowhere beyond his back, husky, raspy like a girl's voice that's screamed too much.  
  
He knows the sound too well.  
  
It takes him a moment to muster a smile on itching lips and turn back. "Aa, Hisoka?"  
  
Hisoka's standing there, green eyes unreadable and dark as the room around them. "Move over."  
  
***  
  
He tries to keep smiling. Hisoka is curled in his bed, stiffly. Clearly uncomfortable. Tsuzuki doesn't know why he came in, if he doesn't want to be there. But somehow his voice doesn't come, words don't come. So he hunches his own shoulders, facing away from Hisoka, and trying to keep smiling.  
  
It's silent for a long time. He can't sleep.  
  
Finally, Hisoka's voice again, almost a whine. "Oh, for-"  
  
An arm drapes around him and he blinks, turns under the touch. "Hisoka?"  
  
The younger Shinigami doesn't look at him, tucks his face against Tsuzuki's chest. "Just hold me."  
  
He does so, automatically. He's good at following orders. Patterns imprint themselves on him. The only rebellion he's ever had was running away, and even then the scars stay with him. Knives entering flesh. His own flesh. Others' flesh. Scars.  
  
"Stop that."  
  
"Hisoka?"  
  
Thin arms tighten around him. "I said that you should stop it."  
  
He doesn't know what to say, so he just nods, face uncomfortable. "Un."  
  
Hisoka's shaking slightly. "You're not alone. Idiot."  
  
It takes him a moment before he remembers. "Oh! Your empathy - I'm sorry."  
  
"Idiot."  
  
"What?"  
  
Hisoka's lips are talking into Tsuzuki's throat. "Don't apologize for that."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
A sigh, Hisoka pulling back enough to face Tsuzuki, their noses barely an inch apart. "Tsuzuki."  
  
He opens his mouth to apologize again, and then shuts it, a smile creeping onto his face. "Yes."  
  
Hisoka's fingers brush Tsuzuki's lips, and the boy has a look on his face like he knows what Tsuzuki's feeling. His own lips purse slightly, uncomfortably. "They hurt."  
  
Tsuzuki thinks of thinks to say to deny it. He opens his mouth, Hisoka's finger still pressing in on his lower lip. "Yes."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
Tsuzuki thinks of scars. "Me neither. Not really."  
  
"Liar." Hisoka's expression is hard to interpret - There's something of injury, something of anger, something of sadness, something else.  
  
"It's -"  
  
"Muraki."  
  
For a moment, his presence lies between them in the bed.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Hisoka's finger withdraws and Tsuzuki exhales.  
  
"...Don't let it bother you," Hisoka says, and Tsuzuki feels the sharp inrush of *pain*, the knowledge that he can't not, and he opens his mouth to speak but finds Hisoka's mouth there instead.  
  
A little noise escapes him. Hisoka's mouth is soft and a bit uncertain, determination and inexperience and - doubtless - bad memories making the kiss awkward and sloppy.  
  
Heat starts in Tsuzuki's chest and explodes upward like his heart has burst, rushing through his lips like - he can't think of a simile. Not fire, not exactly. Warmth. The sensation of what it feels like to eat his favourite desserts. The rush of a summoning. The - he can't think of a simile.  
  
Refreshing. Cleansing. Hisoka's hands tightening on his shoulders, his own arms around Hisoka's waist pulling him closer, tight, as if they're never going to separate again.  
  
When Hisoka pulls back, panting slightly, Tsuzuki's lips feel alive.  
  
After a long moment, he smiles.  
  
Hisoka has turned his face away, and it's hard to see in the dark, but Tsuzuki thinks he might be smiling back, just a little. 


End file.
